She sweeps with many-colored Brooms
by jomiddlemarch
Summary: Hermione knew why Harry was at the door to her office. She just knew. Post-canon AU allowing the author to deal with the stress of the 2016 American Presidential Election through our helpful Harry Potter characters. Written by a Democrat, so feel free to pass if that's not your cup of tea.


"They'll thank me, you know they will, Harry," Hermione exclaimed. She sounded just as she had at fourteen, at fifteen and sixteen and seventeen, researching and conniving and battling Voldemort, managing to get her parents safely sent to Australia no matter what it cost her and he considered again, that though he was supposed to be the bravest and Ron the best at strategy, she might be the most ruthless and that he'd have to tread carefully here.

"Hermione. Luv. I know you're the Minister of Magic and you've had calls from several of them over there and I know how…compelling Justin can be, even if his magic is not top shelf, I know how much you like him and respect him, but we can't meddle in American politics. You know that. It will only backfire," Harry said, lifting his glasses and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. He'd had a headache all day and the 538 had not helped. Ginny had told him the anti-carpal tunnel spell for constantly refreshing the screen would only work so long and she'd been right.

"It's just so hard. When I think about Voldemort and Grindelwald and what we learned about Heike Haraldsdatter and the Viking incursion, it's so hard not to do something, to nudge at something or pull a string… the butterfly effect, y'know. They'd thank me, you know they would," she said again, but with less confidence and more fatigue and she tugged at the cuffs of her plum cashmere jumper in a way that meant she was unsure. Approximately 3 per cent unsure, but still, there was a wedge and she sighed with it. He sighed with relief that there was a wedge at all.

Witches didn't dye their hair and hers was going grey most attractively, with a few silver streaks, but he remembered when her bushy hair had been the glossy brown of a chestnut and her cheeks round and pink and she had hardly ever been tired. War and politics and marriage and children and her research, which she didn't speak of much, not with him to save him the embarrassment of not understanding any of it, all of it had worn on her. She'd look just-forty until she was one hundred twenty likely, but she'd gotten there sooner and this election of the Americans was trying to them all.

"We can't take the chance, we'd, you'd be breaking so many laws and principles… they must figure it out on their own," he said, again, hoping she'd listen. She had before but this time was different. Ron had been exhausted by her, had called him and Neville and even Luna back from Nepal to reason with her, and it seemed like he was making some headway, but you never knew with Hermione. She had a way of setting her perfectly straight, white teeth and narrowing her eyes, every so slightly and you knew you'd have to call in reinforcements.

"They say she's just like you… maybe she doesn't need the help, wouldn't want it," he added.

"That's not what Chelsea's latest owl would suggest," she retorted. It would need to be the big guns, then. Well, that was why he was an Auror and he'd not spent twenty-odd Christmases at Molly Weasley's hearth without learning a little something about networking and subterfuge, capped off with a pudding and lashings of custard.

"What did Minerva say?"

There was a pause, as expected. She fiddled with a long curl and he was suddenly in the tent with her again, Ron away and just the two of them drinking cold, stewed tea and facing poor odds, unaware of the defense Neville was mounting and Snape's machinations and both avoiding thinking about Ron's defection and what it meant for them. She'd only mentioned McGonagall once then, bitterly, on a chilly, sour night they'd split a can of spaghetti they could hardly stomach save that they were both growing adolescents; she'd said, "Fat lot of good Transfiguration does now" but he knew she'd meant that she wanted the older woman's wisdom to guide them and her acerbic, reliable wit to remind them they were still half-grown and not entirely responsible for the fate of the world. The Minister of Magic returned in the blink of an eye and Hermione folded her hands, her slender fingers with the one ring, a Muggle affectation she couldn't part with, her square palms flat against each other.

"She said why wasn't I watching "The Durrells in Corfu" and why hadn't I come to visit at Michaelmas, the way she asked, that Morocco was so pleasant then and I'd probably like a lamb tagine as much as the curry from up the street," she said and glanced at him, the appraising regard of the diplomat, and he stared back, familiar with cocky Aurors and Ginevra Weasley's wrath.

"She said I ought to leave well enough alone and trust that it would come right, that it was enough to be with Her and that she could very well manage without me… sticking me nose in or my wand and didn't I remember how I'd mucked up that Time-Turner business in '01?"

She huffed a little then but he knew Minerva'd had the right of it.

"That's not all, is it?"

"Well, she did point out that Salem had sent advisors and Acadia and Alachua and she'd been apprised of meetings with the Western schools, so there wasn't much need for me to interfere, whatever Justin said. She said there was a great deal of experience there with working across the aisle. I know, Harry, I'll listen and I'll do nothing, but it's very hard," Hermione said, finally relaxing back into the high-backed chair she preferred. It looked like torture to him, but to each her own.

"It's hard for all of us... think of the poor American Muggles! All they've got is Facebook and canvassing. Next time you go to the Wizarding G8, you can talk about this and your restraint and I'm sure you'll feel much better," Harry said. He must have said something right, for Hermione smiled, her true, delighted smile with just a hint of slyness.

"That's not all they've got and it's not all I can do…Tuesday next, under my robe, I'll wear a white suit with trousers. No one will know, not besides you and Ron, but I will and I think, maybe, somehow, she will too," Hermione replied. Harry couldn't quite understand the significance of it, but he was talking to Hermione—that was not uncommon that he missed the bigger picture and if she thought it was a good idea, she was probably right. He couldn't see how wearing a trouser suit could do any harm and certainly, Minerva hadn't warned him off it.

"Now, why don't you see how much of your latest Arithmancy paper you can explain to me and I'll buy you the finest cream tea that overpriced café in the lobby provides when you can tell I'm completely befuddled and then I'll tell you about Charlie's latest mishap," Harry said. He hadn't quite lost his touch with his best friend and they both knew it. She settled the folds of her robe and started talking about an idea that had struck her when they were on holiday in Normandy…


End file.
